Genesis
by The Demon's Song
Summary: Harry makes a deal with something out of his league, and winds up in the past without any of his memories.  Then, things get complicated.  Time travel, eventual slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: As my readers would tell me, I really shouldn't start any new stories before I finish my old ones. Still, this one isn't new. The beginning of it has been sitting on my hard drive for ages, and I've decided it's time to stop being nit-picky about it and just post it. Maybe outside opinions will give me the inspiration I need to finally get the ideas I have for it out on paper. **

**Warnings: This story will contain slash, meaning a male/male pairing. I'm not certain which, yet, but with me slash is sort of inevitable. It also is an AU of the Harry Potter series after the seventh book, which means I'm cheerfully pretending the epilogue never happened. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I play in JKR's sandbox sometimes, is all. I write this out once per series, so consider me disclaimed. :)**

**I hope you enjoy. **

_ "If you could have one thing, any one thing in the entirety of the universe, what would it be?"_

_ It hadn't started there, but those words had been the catalyst. He had never been asked the question before, but knew almost without thought what his answer would be; it came to the tip of his tongue in a moment. At once he knew that he had, for years, unconsciously decided to avoid that very thought. If he thought of it, he would want it, and that would be cruel to himself and others—but there it was, the words slowly forming in his mouth with an idle reverence. He exhaled: air, but not an answer. Still, now that he had thought it, he could hardly take it back..._

_ "You have not answered, Glas."_

_ And so, with the jarring realization fresh in his mind, a plan formed. It was impossible, but he had bumped heads with impossibility before and come out standing. Perhaps if his companion had been less inquisitive, it never would have happened. Too late for that now, though, he thought, and knew would consume him if he didn't act. He met his companion's eyes and, before he could truly understand what he asked, the words had been said. "You owe me a debt."_

_ The impossible beckoned._

…

Albus Dumbledore stood very still, poised before one of his office's windows, and looked towards the setting sun. The view, lit by waves of golden red light, was truly a lovely showing of the Hogwarts ground, all rolling green grass and the broad leaves of trees—such were the benefits of having one's office placed on the seventh floor of a tower with westward facing windows, after all. Any observant soul, in looking upon the scene, however, would not think that Dumbledore looked to the scenery at all, but rather to something only he could see. From the weary lines that gathered at the corners of his blue eyes, and the drawn cast of his mouth, one might rightly assume that the matter that held his attention was not a matter he enjoyed pondering.

A snort came from behind Dumbledore, as did a low, amused voice. "Posing for a portrait, Albus?"

To Dumbledore's credit, the reflexive flinch the sudden noise wrought in him was rapidly hidden, and the movement of his turn toward the speaker was smooth. By the time he came face to face with the unexpected conversationalist, his expression had settled into a gentle smile that was only part affectation. "Hmm?" he queried, meeting a pair of dark, flat eyes. "No, Phineas. Only considering the late date."

The aforementioned Phineas, named Phineas Nigellus Black in life, shook his head, looking disgustedly at the carefully carved wooden boundaries of his portrait. "Save your theatrics for the living, Dumbledore. We who are dead think little of your late date, as you so eloquently put it."

Albus, knowing full well that the former Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was unlikely to offer sympathy, merely smiled all the more widely. Phineas stroked his finely trimmed beard with the palm of his left hand, a gesture that meant that Dumbledore had successfully irritated the portrait. "Lemon drop?" Albus asked, lifting a bowl full of small, yellow candies that he had recently discovered in a Muggle sweet shop, as he was in the sort of mood that caused such an offer to amuse him—an offer made with the knowledge that it could not possibly be accepted.

Phineas' lips thinned, and he looked away. "Is there not some paperwork to which you should be attending?" the portrait asked, with a formality that meant he was hiding offense. Despite his efforts to hide emotion, Phineas had betrayed himself by raising his voice—only slightly, not enough to jolt the dozing portrait directly above him into alertness, but enough to undermine his facade.

Dumbledore's smile faded. "My apologies, Phineas," he said, though he received only another piercing look for his efforts. Attempting to change the topic, he waved one hand at his desk. There, a veritable army of quills operated independently of a human hand, racing across stretches of blank parchment, pausing only occasionally to carefully dip themselves into inkwells, tap off unnecessary ink, and begin again. It was Albus' will and magic that controlled them, though his wand rested in a holster against his arm and not in his hand. This year he could hold one more quill in this fashion than he had been able to the previous year, and two more than the year before that—each year, preparing for the incoming class became just a little easier. "As you can see," Albus said, indicating to the portrait the movement of the feathers, "I have already dealt with the matter of paperwork."

"Ostentatious," Phineas said, clearly.

"But effective, as you will agree, having been a Headmaster yourself. This work will all be completed by the time the students return." Dumbledore looked back to the window at that, casting another look at the fading light.

"How much of the summer remains to us?"

"Two weeks."

"Ah. Only two weeks of freedom before the pests begin to find their way here, then?" Dumbledore had once heard the young Sirius Black describe his great-great-grandfather as the most unpopular Headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen. It was likely this was exaggeration; if it was not, however, the reason behind Phineas' reputation was almost certainly his attitude toward children. "You are too lenient with them, Dumbledore," Phineas had continued as Albus' mind wandered. "They scarcely dared to enter this office without dire cause when I held your position."

"Perhaps they did not," Dumbledore said agreeably, though he did not elaborate on his opinion of Phineas' comment. The sunlight caught and held his eyes with a degree of magnetism, and Dumbledore frowned. "I feel as if something will happen."

"Oh, something will," Phineas said with an air of assurance. Dumbledore looked to him sharply. "It is impossible for _nothing _to happen, after all, else we would cease to exist." The portrait gave Dumbledore a smug look and fell silent.

Albus turned away, displeased, and crossed to the window. "I fear that Voldemort will be a threat to the students," he said softly. "His strength grows. And there is something in the air." Dumbledore sighed, feeling the creeping certainty that he was, in some way, failing to notice something just before his eyes. "I am not a Seer, but I know something will happen."

"Dumbledore—."

"Do not mock me, Phineas," Albus said, simply to dissuade the portrait before he could begin. The Black was not unknown for taking pleasure in irritating Dumbledore whensoever he could, and Dumbledore was in no mood for such a thing. "I know how improbable it sounds. If I only knew what would happen."

"Dumbledore—."

"Phineas, I warn you—."

"DUMBLEDORE."

Albus turned at that, startled. The portrait above Phineas woke with a start, scowling. "Really, Black, it is terribly rude to raise your voice."

But Phineas paid no mind, which was odd; the former Head of the Black House was not known for taking insults against his dignity quietly. Albus met the dark, delving eyes of the portrait, feeling more than a little bewildered. "Dumbledore," Phineas said again, this time very quietly. "I find that I am inclined to agree with your theory that something unusual will happen, if only because one of your bizarre silver instruments has been frantically trying to attract attention for the past minute. Perhaps you should see to that."

Dumbledore looked away, startled, to glance at the instruments in question. Several tables had been erected merely to support them; silver devices of all shapes and sizes, none with any apparent use, gleamed in the candlelight. One of these objects, shaped a little like a nine-pointed star perched upon a sphere, had begun to let out short bursts of red steam in measured intervals and spin in dizzying orbits across the tabletop. "Curious," Albus said, even as his long strides were carrying him towards the object, "that should remain dormant unless strong magic was being carried out within the Hogwarts ground. Perhaps Minerva—"

Albus never got a chance to complete that sentence—even as he pressed a finger to the detector to silence it, a wave of magic swept through the office, jostling the portraits and shattering a glass bottle of Scotch that Albus had been saving for a special occasion. Dumbledore had never felt anything quite like it. He had before only seen two wizards with the capacity for such magic: himself, and Gellert Grindelwald. Albus had existed within his own magic his entire life, and could no more feel it than one could describe what one's own mouth tasted like; in his battle with Grindelwald, he had been bathed in Gellert's power for hours on end, felt the dark, putrescent waves of it slam into his very bones, and had hated the sensation. Dumbledore had assumed that any powerful magic would feel the same in such a barrage: invasive and dank and chilling. He learned now that this was not the case. While the magic that washed through him was not precisely warm, it was pure in a way Gellert's had not been. He felt this magic as it pressed into him and thought first of moonlight: fear and determination were second, distant thoughts.

"Phineas?" Dumbledore called, voice strained.

"I feel it," the portrait affirmed.

Dumbledore inclined his head and felt the magic grow stronger. "If you would ask Poppy and Minerva to join me, Phineas, it would likely be a wise idea."

For once, the former Head of the House of Black did not protest. With a nod, Phineas slipped away from his portrait, darting through other picture frames and occasionally shoving their inhabitants out of his way, ignoring the cries of protest. Dumbledore did not watch for long—there were other matters to be dealt with.

Slipping his wand out of its holster, Albus stilled the quills with a flick. They toppled at once, splattering ink across parchment, and Dumbledore recognized that he would likely have to rewrite more than one of the documents. It was a strange thought for a moment of such pressing worry, but then Albus had always been prone to such. Feeling more protected, Dumbledore shifted his muscles into the battle posture he had never managed to forget and waited for whatever would come.

In the center of his office, there was a burst of light, and Dumbledore could not close his eyes in time to avoid temporary blindness. He cursed his own weakness and waited for an enemy attack, but was bombarded with nothing more than magic that felt like moonlight. He smelled smoke but felt none of the heat of flames. No attack came. He waited, and still there was nothing. Gradually his eyes began to once more focus on shapes, and then colors as the world came back into focus.

Laying just in front of Dumbledore's desk, in what appeared to be a small crater, was a boy. For a moment, Dumbledore was perfectly certain that James Potter had, in some fit of madness, succeeded in Apparating through Hogwarts' wards despite being rather too young to even begin to attempt such a feat—if any would be capable of such insanity, James Potter would be that one. Then he began to register small differences. The boy was shorter than James, surely, and his black hair longer, long enough to be caught in a short ponytail at the base of his neck. He had smaller hands than James Potter, one of which was curled around a wand of holly which was, again, distinctly not that of James Potter. He was paler than James, too. It took Dumbledore a moment to realize just how pale the boy was, just how still. The boy's chest neither rose nor fell.

Cautiously, Dumbledore approached the boy. When the boy did not suddenly spring to his feet and assault the Headmaster, Albus did not stop until he had reached the boy's side. He hesitated a moment, then sank to his knees. Ever so carefully, he reached out a hand and pressed it to the boy's chest, feeling for a heartbeat. There was none to be found for a long moment, then another.

The single, rapid throb beneath his fingertips was the only warning Dumbledore got before the boy suddenly exited unconsciousness with no small force, hurling his upper body upright in the same movement. The boy's abdomen heaved and contracted rapidly as he gasped for air like some sort of beached fish. Albus sat still a moment, fascinated by this abrupt transition into life. It was not until the boy's eyes shot open, revealing startlingly green eyes, that Dumbledore remembered that this boy could be a threat, and by then it was too late; the boy's hand had caught Dumbledore's with a strength Albus had not anticipated from the deceptively thin fingers, and his eyes caught Albus'.

Dumbledore had first thought the boy to be fifteen, perhaps sixteen—he revised this guess upwards, looking at the young man before him. Those eyes did not belong on the face of any soul younger than at least seventeen or eighteen, and even that was a stretch. Purely from the color, he might have compared them to those of Lily Evans, but now the thought scarcely occurred to him. There was a sort of strength in the young man's gaze, and something that Albus would hesitate to call either wisdom or experience, but was comparable to either. Even with a haze of pain and confusion dimming them, those eyes did not belong to a child; Dumbledore knew then that the magic he had felt stemmed from the young man before him, and took in a breath to prepare himself for the trials of Legilimency.

The young man did something then that Albus had not expected. He gasped, clutched all the harder at Dumbledore's hand, and murmured, "Albus. Mordred and Morgana, Albus, you're alive."

Dumbledore started. "Do you know me?" he asked, and chided himself a mere moment later for choosing that question out of all those he might have asked.

"It worked," the young man went on, as if he had not heard Albus' question. "Le Fey's praises—it really worked. You're really not dead, and I'm really here, and it worked." The young man laughed, a throaty full-bodied laugh of what sounded like joy that devolved into a cough a mere moment later.

Albus Dumbledore sat on the floor of his office with the strange young man who had appeared from the air and found himself asking, "Who are you?"

The young man's cough eased, and then began again when he chuckled. "Your friend," he managed to get out, through the contortions of his chest. There was pain on his face. He caught sight of Albus' face and smiled, as though he was so very familiar with Dumbledore that this was a reunion rather than a first meeting. "My name is Harry."

Then the young man let go of Albus' hand and managed to get out a muffled, "Sorry," in the moments before his back arched to an impossible angle. There was a crack, as if of bone, and then he was on the floor, nearly writhing, eyes rolling back in his head. The young man bit his tongue hard enough to make it bleed, opened his mouth, and _screamed _like a banshee predicting a death. Before Albus could even move to help, the young man fell still. As the grave, some part of Albus' mind supplied, but no, there was the rise and fall of the chest. The young man lived.

Through the shock, Dumbledore just managed to hear a woman gasp, and then a Scottish voice was asking, "Albus, what—?" Albus looked up to see his deputy headmistress standing in the doorway, looking around the disaster zone of Albus' office in something like horror. Apparently she had no more idea of what she was asking than Dumbledore did, as she fell silent, gaping.

"His name is Harry," Dumbledore repeated before he could get himself under control. Then, with the ease that long years of practice had raised in him, he stepped away from his own tangled thoughts and took control of the situation. "Is Poppy with you, Minerva?"

"I couldn't reach her in time," Phineas said, and Dumbledore realized he had returned to his frame.

Albus merely nodded and cast a wandless _Levicorpus _on the young man—on Harry. Harry's body went stiff and rose to hover in midair. "We should get him to the hospital wing," Dumbledore said firmly, and Minerva was left no choice but to step back into the hall as he strode towards her. "Hurry," he urged, and she regained her senses with a nod, heading back down the stairs to move the recalcitrant gargoyle out of his way.

"Never a dull day with you, is it, Dumbledore?" Phineas asked as the door swung shut.

**As I said, this story isn't new—it's an old idea and a well-outlined one, but one I've been fairly writer's-blocked on. I'm hoping just putting it out there will give me the inspiration I need to finally write the thing.**

**That said, it's currently November, and I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, so all fanfiction writing is on hold until the month is over. Even when November's done, I have two others works of fanfiction (Lares and I'll Know My Name) which I plan to finish new chapters of and update. So, I can't promise this will be updated regularly, or even at all. Please don't be disappointed if it never is. **

**One thing you can do, dear readers, if you have gotten to this point and enjoyed the premise, is drop a review. I love hearing from readers—your opinions are what allow me to improve my own writing, and what motivate me to continue work on my stories. I don't particularly care if you tell me about your pets, or your day at work, or about how you really think the odds of millions of dollars raining from the sky are increased this year; I just like to hear from you all.**

**Poll for those who do review: What pairing, of the following, would you prefer to see in this story? Harry/young!Remus, Harry/young!Severus, Harry/young!Lucius, or Harry/young-canon-character-of-your-own-choice? **

**Next chapter (if it occurs): Harry deals with the consequences of what he's done, Albus is understandably confused about etiquette, and the Sorting Hat is far too amused.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: So apparently my plan for jarring myself out of writer's block worked, at least enough for me to now present you with a second chapter. Also, as there was no consensus on the pairing of this story from my readers last chapter, I wrote this chapter to best allow myself room to work around any pairing. **

**Enjoy.**

"—_prices to pay, Glas." He smelled herbs, ground and powdered and growing alike, and there was dirt beneath his toes. "Do you even understand—"_

_Terrible cold and, "Not Harry, please, not Harry, take me, kill me instead—," and skeletal hands lifted a black hood and he saw the face of Death—_

_ Light and dark, a million people dancing, finery of silk and thread and people, until everything was the dance and someone was holding out a hand to welcome him in. "Don't you know you're one of us, Harry?"_

_ "Glas, we don't even know if you'll survive."_

"Harry."

_He scuffed the dirt beneath his feet and said, "I have to try."_

_ "Why?"_

_ "My family—"_

_ His parents danced in a photo, young and so, so very happy. A brown haired girl laughed, book propped open on her knee and her hand entangled with a red-headed boy's as they sat on the couch, looking so alive. Dinner in a room full of warmth and a horrid Cannons poster stuck to the wall over the bed Harry slept in. A tired eyed man who curled up around a pink-haired woman in a bed, as Harry closed the door behind him because they deserved their sleep. A blond haired boy offered his hand and said, "Last chance, scarhead, because I won't offer a third time." A dreamy eyed girl danced inside a greenhouse with another, red-haired girl, while a brown haired boy tended to plants and watched them both fondly. A dark haired man leaned against a motorcycle, shirt sleeves rolled up, smile full of pride as he described his youth—but that youth was lost, lost, lost, somewhere between his best friend's death and the halls of Azkaban. His heart went out to them all._

_ "Are we not enough family, Glas?"_

"Harry."

"_I have to do this."_

_ Chanting, a knife, the smell of herbs, letters on the ground—_

_ "I don't want to do this."_

_ "You owe me a debt."_

_ Death and Life—he could see the summons for them both and he knew that they held between the two of them Time, and if he could only barter—_

"Harry."

_"I must—"_

"Harry, you must wake up," a voice said.

So he did.

…

He woke to a white ceiling, a soft bed, the vaguely acidic smell of a room in which no dust was to be tolerated, and a white-bearded man who looked down at him with eyes full of both concern and analysis. _I've woken like this before, _he thought, with the bleariness of one still near sleep. He looked into familiar eyes and opened his mouth to call out a greeting.

The name of the man, which had been so close to his tongue, fled, leaving confusion in its wake.

"Ah, Harry," the man, who had a vaguely academic look about him despite the oddity of his clothes, said. Though he spoke what must have been a first name, he did not do so comfortably; rather, the bearded man spoke as though he might prefer a more impersonal address to utilize, and, lacking that, attempted to make do with what he had been given. "You are awake."

It took him a moment to realize that he had been the one spoken to. "Harry?" he asked, honestly puzzled. "Is that my name?" He woke then, truly and completely, and it occurred to him that he should probably be afraid. _My name, _he thought, only to find that he had no memory of what that name was. The most banal of facts filled its place—he was small for his age, he had green eyes, he was fond of red wine, his _patronus _had once taken the form of a stag—but that was all. He could quite confidently say that he was right handed, and that his hair was far less exasperating since—since—since someone else whose name he could not place had told him to grow it out. He couldn't, however, remember his name. "Why don't I know my own name?" he asked, voice urgent.

The man shifted, looking discomforted. Something about the man's posture seemed to say he'd had important matters both confused and clarified by that one question. _How can I know him so well if I can't even remember his name?_ "I had hoped this would not happen," the man said. He did not say _what_ he had hoped would not happen, which was rather unhelpful of him, and only went on to say: "Do you remember anything prior to waking here?"

"Yes," he said at once, and then, hesitantly, "well, sort of. I remember—." And there was the question. What did he remember? "I remember," he started slowly, "that this isn't the first time I've woken up in a hospital wing—I assume this is a hospital wing?" The bespectacled man nodded, and he found himself smiling a little. "Other little things, too. I know what I look like, my favorite time of day, the color of my sister's eyes..." He trailed off and frowned. "No, that isn't right. Not my sister, but family." His dream returned to him then, and he knew one thing more. "There was something I needed to do for my family, something important. Does any of this make any sense?"

The man sighed. "You would know as well as I, I am afraid. I take it you do not remember, then, how you came to be here?"

"I assume I was injured," he said, cautiously.

"In a sense," the man ceded. "No, Mister...that is to say, no, Harry. As a matter of fact, you appeared right in the middle of my warded office with a burst of magic the likes of which Hogwarts had never seen before. You seemed to retain your memory upon arrival. Indeed, you greeted me by name. You then proceeded to tell me your own name—this being Harry—and fall into what seemed to be immense pain. It is... not unheard of for major works of magic to alter their casters in some way. I believe it is likely that you paid the cost of that magic through your memories." The man went on to say, with a weary sort of levity, "You are to be congratulated. You are an exceptional wizard."

_And you fear me for that_, he thought, and knew it was the truth, though he didn't quite know _how _he knew. "I greeted you by name?" There was a pause, and, seeing that the other man was not taking his cue, he continued, "Sorry, but, what is that name, exactly?"

The man's blue eyes widened. "I apologize. I don't suppose there is etiquette concerning this particular situation, of course, but it was still rude of me to neglect introductions. My name is Albus Dumbledore, and I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

_Albus. _He turned the name over in his mind, thinking hard. How had he known the name before he had been told it? He was sure, now, that he had—his lips had already formed the first letter of the name before it disappeared from his mind. He had appeared, impossibly, in the middle of the man's office, called him by name (_called him a friend_, came a little voice that seemed to know more than he did on the matter) and then what? Apparently he'd lost himself, all that he was, to magic—but had he done it willingly? No, he thought, the more important question was why. What would have driven him to pay so high a price? His family, of course, but without his memory, he couldn't exactly do much to help them, could he?

He realized then that the blue-eyed man—Albus—was waiting, and then a moment later realized what he was waiting for. "I would love to be polite and introduce myself in return, Albus Dumbledore," he said, almost amused. "But I don't know my name any more than you do."

Albus pressed a finger to the bridge of his nose, lifting half-moon spectacles to their proper perch. "You'll have to be called something. Is the name you told me so objectionable?"

It was not, though he did not feel that it really belonged to him either. There was a name that fit—_prices to pay, Glas—_but he knew somehow that this name was not to be told to Albus Dumbledore, was not to be told to anyone. Without any more appealing options, would Harry be so offensive? He decided. "My name is Harry," he said, and from that moment on it was, because he had made it so.

Still, this left them on grounds no different than they had been before; Dumbledore would still be uncomfortable with a first name alone. He—Harry, he reminded himself—would have to choose a last name as well.

For just an instant, he saw in his mind's eye a pair of dark, rough, dirt-worn hands holding sprouts of green between thick fingers with the utmost care, carefully brushing soil into place so that the plant could find earth and root itself there. He knew that in that moment, the name Potter would have come to him more naturally than anything else. Even as he opened his mouth to speak, though, the picture was gone, and the name no more than a name, and so what he spoke was not what he expected. "Glass," he said, much to Albus Dumbledore's confusion. And maybe that was cutting things close, but it felt right on his lips, and he would not rescind it now that it had been said. "My last name—I remember it being Glass."

It amused Harry to see how much Albus relaxed once the formality was there to retreat behind. "Mister Glass," Dumbledore said, and Harry knew things had changed—they were no longer two strangers on equal footing in the unknown, but rather now a Headmaster and a student, albeit a student of unknown quality who had shown some rather surprising talent. Harry didn't mind. The situation was out of control, and he couldn't do anything to improve it. Dumbledore had his gratitude for trying. "Do you remember how old you are?"

"Sixteen," Harry said, automatically and truthfully, shocking himself as much as he had Dumbledore. He didn't remember being sixteen, but he had not lied, either. Suddenly Harry wasn't sure he would recognize himself if he looked in a mirror. How much had the magic changed?

"Sixteen?" Albus asked, seemingly taken aback. "I was certain you were older."

_As was I_, he thought, but did not say. Instead he smiled and said, "Funny, almost everybody always tells me I look younger than I am."

"There's something about your—." Harry had been almost interested to hear the end of that sentence; as it was, though, Dumbledore shifted, seeming to remember that it would not do to discuss the features of an under-aged wizard. "In any case, that does bring a different light to the situation. You can hardly be allowed to leave the school without your guardians present, especially considering that you may not remember where to go."

"That makes things tricky for everyone involved, doesn't it?" Harry asked. "Considering that we've no idea who my guardians are?"

"Yes." Dumbledore shifted at his bedside, and lifted his hand to press his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Harry felt that gesture was oddly familiar, the sort of thing he himself had done a thousand times—but, no, he was seeing Dumbledore perfectly clearly without glasses now. Any other memories he might have would have to be considered false. It was an odd feeling, Harry realized, to have no reassurance that anything you felt or thought was true to your past. "Yes, that does indeed complicate matters somewhat."

"So," Harry said, feeling oddly nervous. What would he do if he was left to his own devices now? Without memories, money, or a legal guardian of any sort, what would he do in the outside world. "Is there any way you can help me?"

For the first time, Dumbledore seemed less solemn, as though Harry's asking had comforted him in some way. His blue eyes, which had remained sharply fixed on Harry throughout the majority of the conversation, now seemed bright behind his half-moon spectacles. It made the wizard look younger, and more vital. The best word Harry had to describe it was that Dumbledore's eyes suddenly twinkled. "I believe there is a way that I can."

…

"Oh, Albus," the Sorting Hat said, sounding amused. Harry had not previously been aware that a hat _could _communicate amusement by tone alone, even if that hat was a magical artifact with centuries of history behind it, but apparently he'd been wrong in that assumption. "You really are my favorite headmaster of the last century—always so inventive in keeping me entertained."

It sounded like the Hat was laughing at his situation, and Harry felt himself shifting his weight uncomfortably. He might even be blushing, though it wasn't as though he had a mirror to check with. It was strange; in the same way he'd thought he remembered being older than sixteen, he also thought he remembered being much more composed than this. He didn't think of himself as someone who felt awkward at small things, or who blushed easily. Of course, there was the small matter of his future hanging in the balance of this, which might be affecting his reactions to everything. Still, it was rather alarming to continually realize how much he didn't know about himself. Harry tried to make himself stand still, and a little straighter.

"This particular situation was not of my own making," Dumbledore said, in the sort of light tone that implied all the _other _situations the Sorting Hat was referring to had been entirely his fault. "Mister Glass came here quite of his own free will."

"But you're the one who's decided to keep him on as a student," the Sorting Hat pointed out in turn. "I'm not saying it's an irrational decision, Albus. Just an amusing one."

To be fair, Harry felt much the same way about it. He'd expected Dumbledore might let him stay in the castle, or at least on the castle grounds—Dumbledore didn't strike him as the sort of person to leave a teenaged boy helpless on the streets just because he had chosen to arrive a little unusually. What he hadn't expected was for Dumbledore to begin explaining about a scholarship Hogwarts maintained for needy students. Apparently there was enough money in the thing to cover even someone completely penniless, like Harry himself; Harry was fairly certain Dumbledore had said something about the money being bequeathed to the school by some Minister of Magic years before, but he'd largely ceased paying attention once the speech had turned into a history lesson. To earn that scholarship, however, Harry would have to be enrolled at Hogwarts. It was a rather obvious caveat, but not precisely something Harry had expected.

"Headmaster," Harry had said, hesitantly, when Dumbledore had finished proposing the idea, "I don't mean any disrespect, but—I obviously already know how to use magic. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Ah," Dumbledore had said, "but can you remember anything you once learned, now that your memory has been stripped from you?"

Harry had startled at that. That wasn't a concern he'd had. He had the feeling that control over his magic had been so much a part of his life for so long a period of time that he couldn't imagine being without it now. Besides, he didn't feel as though he'd forgotten anything related to his magic. He had told Dumbledore as much, and the headmaster had responded, "Best to be certain, wouldn't you think, Mister Glass? Besides, this will allow you the chance to remain at the school until we can discover more about you, or until your memories are recovered. Completing an education at Hogwarts will give you the credentials you need to pursue a job of your own, even if your memories never return." That staying at Hogwarts would also keep him under Dumbledore's watchful eye didn't escape Harry. He didn't like to think cynically about someone who was showing him such kindness; it made his conscience twinge, in a way that made him feel like that sort of cautiousness was a learned habit rather than an innate one. He had to trust that Dumbledore's good intentions outweighed whatever suspicion his use of magic had caused in the older man.

"What do I have to do?" Harry had asked, simply, and Dumbledore had smiled at him.

"There are some documents we will need to sort, and a few other details we'll attend to once you're well enough to be out of bed," Dumbledore had said, and then it was all but final. Harry was going to be a student at Hogwarts.

It had been several days before Harry felt well enough to attend to those minor details, and another day after that before Madame Pomfrey had given her permission for Harry to leave the infirmary. "Really, Mister Glass," she'd said, when Harry had insisted he was well enough to leave, "I think I would know better than you. You have no idea how badly injured you were when you first arrived. I did my best, of course, but sometimes with cases of strong magic of the sort you used, even the most time-tested and successful treatments fail without any cause. I won't have you running about too soon and spoiling all my hard work." He had protested that he wasn't planning to _run about_, and she had reminded him that she worked year-round with teenaged boys and knew better than to believe that. A day later she had, reluctantly, cleared him, after securing both his and Dumbledore's promises that there really would be no physical exertion.

Harry had spent all this morning signing Dumbledore's documents—how so many pieces of parchment could be involved in one enrollment, Harry had absolutely no idea. When that was done, the fine details Dumbledore mentioned were sorted out. First of all, some sort of story had to be created to explain Harry's presence at the school. Fortunately for Harry (_not fortunately at all, _a small, foreboding voice at the back of his mind had whispered, but he was carefully disregarding that), there was a war on, and an orphaned student appearing in the school wouldn't be too unbelievable. Next there had been the small matter of assessing Harry's skill level, to ascertain what classes he'd be joining. "Oh," Dumbledore had said, when Harry had reached for his wand, "not your magical skill level, my boy. I fear Madame Pomfrey would have quite a bit to say about you using magic now." Instead, he'd been verbally tested on a bizarrely broad range of subjects, and as an end result of this, now knew himself to be apparently skilled at defensive magic, transfiguration and rune-based magic, and dismal at anything involving botany or potion making. It had been something of a relief to Harry to know he hadn't forgotten how to use magic after all; though he could not remember how, when, or why he had picked up his knowledge, the practical aspect of that learning did seem to have stayed with him, in the same way that his ability to talk and walk had. Once they'd determined he would indeed be able to enter Hogwarts on a sixth-year level, the only thing left to sort out had been Harry's actual Sorting.

That was how he'd come to be here, with a hat laughing at him. Harry's life was very strange, if these past few days were any indication of all that he'd forgotten.

"Well," the Sorting Hat said, and Harry realized he'd been preoccupied for his thoughts for long enough the Hat had noticed, "I can't sort you if you're across the room, boy. Come, sit down. Put me on. I'm curious about you."

Harry looked to Dumbledore first, and, at the headmaster's nod, made his way to the stool the Hat had been set down on. He lifted up the Sorting Hat carefully, feeling the magic of the artifact almost buzzing at his fingertips as he touched it. It was strange, that so much magic was contained in such a small, harmless looking thing—a moment later Harry was amused to realize that Dumbledore must think of him in much the same terms. Gently, he set the Hat down on his head and waited.

He had not known the Sorting Hat would speak inside his mind, but apparently it was capable of that too, as it said a moment later, _My, my, Mister Glass, it's rather twisted up inside your head. I don't think I've seen a mind like this in quite some time. _He didn't jump at the strange, intrusive feeling of the words, but it was a close call. _Calm yourself, _the Sorting Hat said, sounding amused once again. _I can't do anything worse to you than you've already done to yourself._

"What," Harry said, and had to swallow around the sudden dryness of his throat, "can you tell me?"

_Hmm, _the Sorting Hat said. _There are things in here closed off to me, though not as many as are closed off to you. Most of the pathways to your memory are burnt almost entirely away. There are still a few here and there that remain, but I'm getting a garbled picture of you from them, at best. There's every sign you've made a bargain with something, and not a pretty one at that._

"With what?" Harry asked, feeling frustrated.

_Well, that certainly is the hundred galleon question, isn't it? _The Sorting Hat sounded equal parts cryptic and apologetic inside Harry's head, leaving him with the distinct impression that the Hat knew a little more than it planned to reveal. _Distrust me if you must_, the Hat said, _but know that I wouldn't withhold anything without a reason. Rather Slytherin of you to assume otherwise..._

The House system of Hogwarts confused Harry, in all honesty. Dumbledore had explained it to Harry, briefly, and while the explanation had seemed deeply familiar to Harry, it had also struck him as odd that so much of a student's educational experience would be decided based on distinctive traits they had at age eleven. The Sorting Hat seemed to hear this thought, as it chuckled inside his head. _Well, considering that your sorting will be based on distinctive traits you've retained after amnesia, perhaps the average student fares a little better than you. Let me see, now. You do have a number of Slytherin qualities. That cynicism you can't avoid, for one, _and Harry felt the same embarrassment over that tendency that he had before, which the Sorting Hat seemed to acknowledge. _I would tell you you could be great in Slytherin, Mister Glass, but your mind seems to tell me you are already great. Perhaps what you need is not ambition and subtlety. Nor is it knowledge—you are not meant for Ravenclaw, Mister Glass. _This last was said so bluntly that it almost made Harry laugh. He was glad to know he'd been right about himself in that respect, at least; if the Sorting Hat had told him he was studious and simply didn't know it, he'd be extremely surprised.

_ No, I can assure you that enthusiasm for book learning is not amongst your major virtues, Mister Glass, _the Sorting Hat said, dryly._ However, you are brave. I think no one can deny that—you've done what no other wizard ever has, and I don't see here that you had any assurance that you would succeed when you carried out that task. Still. It was not courage alone that motivated you in that endeavor. You came here for your family, not for yourself. I see their influence very strongly in your mind, for all that you cannot remember them. Even now, you are driven to help them, though you don't know how; you would consider it disloyal to do otherwise._ _And loyalty is very important to you, is it not, Mister Glass?_

"Well, Albus," the Sorting Hat said aloud, "I think for this one it'd better be Hufflepuff." Harry couldn't honestly say who was more surprised, himself or Dumbledore. He'd sort of gotten the impression from Dumbledore's explanation that Hufflepuffs spent all their time hugging each other and chanting about friendship. The Sorting Hat laughed again. "Don't let misconceptions alarm you, Mister Glass. Hufflepuff will do well for you in time. Now take me off and let me get some rest—I've only two weeks before I'll need to carry out the sorting, and I haven't finished my song yet."

Harry raised his hands to his head, and lifted the Sorting Hat off. Just before contact broke between them, the Sorting Hat sent out one last whispered thought. _A pleasure to meet you, Mister Glass. Do come to visit from time to time. _Then the Hat was off, and it fell silent, appearing to be nothing more than a ragged old bit of cloth.

"Well," Dumbledore said, when Harry turned to face him. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

**End chapter two.**

**Surprised by my choice of houses for Harry? Irritated with me for being vague? Concerned about global warming? Whatever you happen to be feeling at the moment, if you've gotten this far please drop me a review and let me know about it. Reviews are what allow me to improve my own writing, and make sure my readers are pleased with the way my stories go. Plus, I adore hearing from you all—so please, leave a review and make my day.**

**The pairing choice for this story remains open to reader opinion. If there's a large majority for one pairing or another, I'll choose that one. Feel free to leave your opinion on this in a review, if you care—if not, I'll probably decide on my own soon enough.**

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